Love Power

by Martha Reed

  Shit! Snatching her hand off the mouse, Jane gasped as she recognized the imminent danger. The second I open this file it’ll automatically refresh the time/date stamp. Dupree will know that I’ve searched it. Her head swam at the enormity of her near error. Slowly releasing her breath, she pulled the desk drawer open and started searching.

  This’ll work. Inserting the thumb drive into the PC port, she copied the MasterStore file over. No going back now. She double-clicked the mouse.

  An orange ERROR message bar filled the screen.

  ENTER PASSWORD.

  “Shit.” Jane fell back against the chair. Give him some credit. Numa’s savvier than I thought. Pushing away from the console, she walked to Numa’s desk and started riffling through his messy stacks of reports and manila folders before spotting an index card tucked face down in one corner of his old school desk calendar blotter. Wanna bet? Jane flipped the card over. Jackpot. She snorted. So much for stated client privacy concerns and security.

  Returning to the console, she carefully henpecked GUARDIAN007 into the password field and pressed ENTER.

  The MasterStore file blinked twice before it opened. Jane leaned in. Sliding the keyboard closer, she typed Control/F and searched for Unit #301. The spreadsheet immediately rolled to an entry highlighted in yellow:

  OWNER *301 OPEN PAYMENT METHOD: N/A

  “No registered owner.” Jane released the keyboard. That confirms what Numa said about Cal taking cash payments under the table. Dead end. She continued to stare at the blinking single line entry. Or is it? Hold up. Her pulse started to hammer as she tabbed through the remaining columns. Numa said Cal gave out an entry fob for #301. What does the MasterStore vehicle ID column say? If I crosscheck the vehicle ID for #301 against the gate entry camera I’ll get a screen shot of the killer!

  The vehicle ID column was blank. “Shit! Cal!” Jane shouted, tightening her hands into fists. Wait! She paused. Think this through. Maybe I’ve been going at it backwards? The EntryLog file is associated with a unit number. Search that archive. EntryLog might give me what I need.

  Quickly returning to the main menu, Jane double-clicked the EntryLog tab and a second spreadsheet opened. Using Control/F she repeated the search for Unit #301.

  The search box stalled and pulsed blankly. Hitting ENTER again, harder, Jane repeated the search and got the same negative result. Zero vehicle entries for Unit #301? That doesn’t make sense. Widening the date range search to cover the previous ninety days, Jane tried again, her shoulders hunched to her ears. Nothing? How can that be? The killer deposited Fancy’s body on Saturday night. He didn’t carry her up from the street. We would’ve captured that on the stairwell cam.

  Gooseflesh crawled up Jane’s forearms as another suggestion gelled. The killer signed in under another, different unit.

  Hammering the keyboard, she tightened the date range search to the previous four days. The killer wouldn’t be one and done. He’d keep coming back to check his work. Selecting SORT, she hit ENTER. The EntryLog spreadsheet automatically refreshed. Holding her breath, Jane studied the repeated visit entries.

  There were six in-and-out line items for Unit #515.

  #515? Jane sat back, puzzled. No one’s using Level Five. Those are the empty music studios. Returning to the MasterStore report, she clicked Control/F and initiated a new search:

  OWNER *515 ORGANIZATION: ATPP PAYMENT METHOD: CASH

  ATPP? Fuck. Sour dread filled her empty stomach. This can’t be good. Minimizing the MasterFile report screen, she launched Google. The primary search results confirmed her concern. She double clicked the lead hyperlink and the American True Patriot Party website displayed.

  She studied the white supremacist website filled with hate-filled catch phrases and glaringly graphic propaganda. The ATPP’s mission statement was clearly stated in bold type: America was created for white Christian Anglo/Europeans by white Christian Anglo/Europeans. All other ethnicities, races, religions, and demographics are absolutely not compatible with American culture. As such, a mass exodus, isolation, apartheid, or segregation must be restored to maintain our nation.

  “Fuck me. Camps.” Her stomach roiled. “They’re talking concentration camps again.” She slowly lowered her forehead to rest on her folded hands. Well? I knew they were out there, and I ignored it and now here we are. This shit makes me sick. She considered the rising human rights abuses and the increase in rage and injustice being reported daily in the news. The question is: what am I going to do about it? I can’t ignore this shit anymore. It’s time to speak up, take a stand. This shit is real, and I need to do something about it.

  Reaching for the mouse, she tabbed through the MasterFile log for the license tag associated with Unit #515. This time, she hit pay dirt.

  OWNER *515 ORGANIZATION: ATPP VEHICLE ID: CV 2M77

  She stared at the Confederate flag boldly printed on the special interest Louisiana plate. “‘Sons of Confederate Veterans.’” Jane murmured. “State issued plate. Crissakes! How is this shit still allowed?” Realizing the true extent and the plate’s full meaning, she felt electrified by outrage. “How the fuck can you still order this plate from a state DMV?”

  Rolling the chair closer to the console, she returned to the EntryLog archive, typed ‘CV 2M77’ into the search field and waited, her shoulders hunched to her ears.

  A still photo slowly filled the monitor in banded gray sections, but she got a hit.

  “Nailed you, fucker.” Jane stared at the battered pickup truck. Ford F-150. An early one. 1983, ’84? Basic trim package. Half of the Louisiana car tag was in shadow, but it was enough. She released her breath. I’ve got something solid here. This could be Fancy’s killer.

  She leaned in. I need to tell Dupree. She frowned. But how do I share this intel with him? He’ll know I illegally cracked these files. I’ll get canned and he can’t use this evidence in court. Tapping her lips, she considered her options. What if I tell Dupree anonymously? How could that work? She rose to her feet. I could lose my job over nothing. I don’t even know what’s in Unit #501. Slipping her phone and her security fob into her pocket, she clipped a duty taser to her belt. Crossing the room, she opened Numa’s desk drawer and grabbed his set of Guardian’s master keys.

  Only one way to find out. Let’s go see.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The overhead lighting buzzed on with a snap. Never liked Level 5. Music studios are spooky as hell like vacant theaters or empty churches and barns. They have a presence. The corridor was so still that Jane’s measured footsteps echoed off the concrete walls as her shoulders instinctively crept up to her ears. It feels like something big is watching me.

  Unit #501, right? Gripping the master keys, she eyed the three jumbo floor-to-ceiling storage units on the left. The three darkened music studios were on her right, finishing up that row with a built-in two-story reverb chamber whose smooth circular wall rose thirty feet straight up through Level Six like an empty corn silo. The reverb chamber only had one door in and it used the same door out. That thing gives me the creeps.

  She spotted a line of dried muddy footprints leading to Studio One. Gotta be Ken’s. No one else uses these studios. She followed them first, cupping her hands to peer through the slotted tinted windows and testing the locks on all three doors to make sure she was truly alone. Studio Three still housed a monster tabbed Legacy mixer deck, but all three studios looked derelict, their isolation booths filled with cast off speakers, mic stands, and amps.

  All clear. Spinning on her heel, she trotted to Unit #501.

  The locking deadbolt mechanism opened easily under Numa’s master key. Bending both knees, Jane rolled the accordion door overhead and out of the way and quickly scanned the contents. The unit was almost empty except for a double-stacked row of taped up cardboard packing boxes and a rolled up blue plastic tarp shoved against the rear wall.

  Jane stepped in. The hairs on her forearms rose, individually shifting as if they were charged with static electri
city from an unseen summer storm. Smells like rotten hamburger. She grabbed her nose. Taking another step forward, she noticed a glistening spray of crimson droplets splattered on the floor. That’s not random. Ordering her stiffened legs forward, she closed the distance to the tarp, gasping with the sucker punch as her eyes focused and her brain suddenly made sense of what she saw.

  Step away! Step away now! Call Dupree! Her CSI training commanded. Sorry, no can do. Her knees popped as she knelt. I can’t un-see his shoe.

  “Oh, Cal.” Her heart shattered. “What did you do?”

  Sliding her jacket sleeve over her hand, she reached for the tarp, the stiff plastic crackling under her fingertips like brittle harbor ice fractured by a rising tide. Marva will be devastated when she finds out.

  Pushing the tarp aside as one piece, Jane lost her balance, landing hard on her elbow and falling on her ass before scrambling to her feet, her pulse roaring in her ears.

  Numa?

  Numa lay slumped like a bundle of dirty rags in a puddle of coagulating blood that still seeped from the deep stab wound in his chest. His head lolled against his shoulder, his eyes half-closed, his slack jaw open and his face a chalky gray.

  Bending forward, Jane gripped her knees. She couldn’t get enough air. But I saw Numa leave the building! Her rational mind raised an objection. No, that’s not right. I saw him leave the office. I was in too much of a hurry to watch for his car leaving on the exit cam. She shivered as needles of dread prickled her spine. Numa met the killer on the way to his car. She gasped for breath. But I checked the entry log! No one else is here. Her mind swayed drunkenly and then righted as she unclipped the taser from her belt. That entry log info is dodgy and always has been. The killer might still be in the building with me. Her hand ached to feel the weight of her service Glock pulling on her wrist the way it used to as she chanced another scan of the unit. I don’t see a knife. Unless it’s in one of these boxes the killer took it with him.

  Stumbling into the corridor, her pulse pounding in her ears, she pinned her shoulders against a wide support pillar and speed-dialed Dupree. Come on. Come on. She stared at her phone as it refused to connect. Shit. I need more bars. I’m inside tons of concrete. I need to get to the office or to the roof. Indecision made her pause. Do I go up or down? Does that rooftop panel even open? She fingered the master keys. It’s got a separate chain. She studied the stairwell, struggling to stay focused but feeling trapped and knowing she needed to make her decision. Down it is. What are my options? Freight elevator? No, too much noise. Exit ramp? No fucking way I’m outrunning his truck if he’s in here. Fine. Jane swallowed. Stairwell it is.

  Gripping the taser in her left hand, she swiped the key fob over the security pad, flinching as the shrill acknowledgement beep trilled. If he’s here, he knows I’m on my way down. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Fuck. I really don’t want to do this.

  Pausing on the landing, she rose onto her toes. I have a taser. He has a knife. Her previous police tactical training took over like forgotten muscle memory. I’ve got six seconds to react when I see him. She filled her lungs with air. Six seconds has to be enough.

  Shoving the door open, she started down, alert to the ends of her fingertips.

  Eight steps, pause, look, turn became her new mantra as she raced past Levels Five and Four. Glancing down the center railing, the stairwell appeared deserted, her footsteps and her breathing making the only sounds as she rounded the turn for Level Three.

  Numa is dead and Cal is still missing bubbled up from her subconscious as she continued her descent. The killer’s erasing anyone who knows he’s been using lockers at Guardian Storage. Slamming the fire door open, Jane raced down the hall, pulling her phone from her pocket. Sliding into the office she locked the door, scanning the monitors as she speed-dialed Dupree.

  “Dupree. It’s late. What can I do for you?”

  “Dupree?” Her pulse pounded so painfully her voice cracked. She had to swallow twice to get the words out. “Guardian Storage, Unit #501. Another homicide, Dupree. Numa Hebert, my boss. Stabbed, less than an hour ago. I need help. The killer may be on site with me.”

  She heard his quick intake.

  “Are you safe? Is your location secure?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Jane tuned her ears to listen for the slightest whisper of sound. “I’m locked in the office. I have a taser. I want my fucking Glock!”

  “Shelter in place. Jane? Don’t ... touch ... anything. Stay exactly where you are. Do you copy? Answer me.”

  “Yes.” She heard his scramble. “I copy.”

  “ETA is twelve minutes, fifteen tops. Stay on the line. I’m leaving now.”

  “Roger that.” Setting her phone on speaker, Jane scrambled up to close the office blinds. They wouldn’t stop a bullet, but in some primal way she felt safer behind their slatted screen. Good luck with that. Her rational mind scoffed. Like a child hiding under the covers from the Bogey Man. “Fuck off.” She muttered, pulling a chair away from the center console and sitting with her back to the wall as she repeatedly glanced between the entrance camera monitor and her phone like a ticking pendulum clock.

  “Still there? Did you notify anyone? The owners?”

  “I don’t even know who they are. Numa never shared that intel with me.”

  “Take care of this first.” Dupree’s voice sounded distant and grim. “Just so you know, if we can’t get ahold of the owners, you’re in charge.”

  “Got it.” She heard Dupree’s tires squeal.

  “Talk to me. How did you find the body? Know where to look?”

  “On patrol.” She boldfaced lied. “I saw blood splatter on the floor and tracked it to that unit.” Her instinct warned her it was time to stop lying to Dupree. He’s an ally you idiot, not a rival. “Dupree? Wait. That’s not right.” She confessed. “I researched the ownership records on the unit where Fancy Abellard was found. Connected it to Unit #501. They’re both rented by the same group, the American True Patriot Party.”

  “The what?”

  She heard his intake again.

  “The ATPP?”

  “There’s more.” Her words tumbled out. “I have a still photo capture of an associated vehicle with Louisiana tag, CV 2M77.” For the first time in years, Jane’s memory seemed crystal clear and her brain processed the information like a well-oiled machine. “An early Ford F-150 pickup truck. I think it’s our killer, Dupree. That’s where we should look.”

  “That’s where I should look.” The entrance monitor flared as a Crown Vic and an unmarked unit drove up. Dupree’s image blinked into the grainy camera next to the security gate’s jointed arm. “Let us in. I want to know what’s going on.”

  You and me, both. Jane slammed the entry access button with her fist. Because his fucker is closing in. Reaching for the taser, she hurried to join Dupree, gripped by a riptide of relief so great she stumbled as she glimpsed an end to her responsibilities. Time to hand it over to the professionals. I just want to be left alone again to do my thing.

  No, I don’t. Sudden insight illuminated her mind. This is my thing. I love doing this shit because this is what I do best. Picking up her pace, Jane remembered: This is the best version of who I really am. When did I forget that? I’m as fucking professional as it gets.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jane dribbled a thin thread of hand lotion around the inside of her new shoes, hoping that it might soften the cheap pleather that kept pinching her baby toes. The open-toed sandals were horribly out of season, but they were almost the right size and they had only been six bucks in the Dollar Store’s clearance bin.

  She nervously checked the kitchen clock radio. 6:17 PM. Two minutes since the last time I looked. Squeezing her protesting feet back under the straps, she studied her hands. Why am I trembling? It’s only a date. I wasn’t this fucking nervous running down that stairwell looking for a killer.

  Ryan Embry was due to swing by and pick her up at any moment. Jane kept listening for
the sound of his van pulling into the driveway. The Deuce offered live music without a cover charge on their Wednesday Over the Hump Night and he’d scored a table. She looked down at Mr. Piddles, panting happily at her feet.

  “What d’you think, Biggie P? Am I ridiculous?”

  He thumped his tail against the floor as she finished primping. At least she was happy with her hair. The straightening iron had worked its magic and smooth waves framed her face. She critically studied her dress, still uncertain if she actually liked the loud floral pattern or not. Am I showing too much cleavage for a first date? What message am I sending? Here I am, love me? I’m thirty-four years old. I’m desperate? Jane frowned sourly. Who am I kidding? This isn’t the real me. This isn’t who I really am. Closing her eyes, she gripped the bathroom sink. Stop thinking like that immediately! I need to be open to this, give it a fair chance. If I don’t try something new, nothing will change.

  “Piddles?” She reached for her new dangling crystal earrings. “Your mother is a head case.”

  There was a rap at the door. Her heart leapt into her throat with a flurry of nervous butterflies. Snatching a breath, Jane turned, tripping over the bathroom threshold in her strappy and unfamiliar heels. Piddles leapt out of her way, barking happily and following her into the front room, excitedly pawing the air while dancing on his hind legs.

  “Get out of my way, dog.” Jane smoothed her hair. Squaring her shoulders, she swept through the living room, lightly tapping a lampshade to level it and shifting the throw pillow from the window seat to the chair. That’s odd. When did I move that pillow there? Shrugging off the question, she unlocked the door.